velvourne

[velvourne]

Suture 「Dean Winchester」

He’s wounded. You’re stitching. His blood’s on your hands.

But it’s not the pain making him shake.

Content Warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, post-hunt sex, blood, grinding, p in v penetration, tender fucking, mutual desperation, oversensitivity, creampie, Dean is wrecked and gorgeous about it.

Word Count: 4,776

Read it on AO3.

Divider by @easytiger-xo 💋

The motel room smelled like iron, soap, and antiseptic.

You sat on the edge of the bed, needle in one hand, thread in the other, eyes narrowed in concentration. The gash along Dean’s side was deep. Not fatal, but angry-looking.

Like him. Like the way his thigh kept twitching, jaw tight, lips pressed together like they were holding something back.

“Keep still,” you muttered, dabbing the last of the blood away before sliding the needle through his skin again.

He flinched. Not much. But enough.

“You good?” you asked, glancing up.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at you.

That same stare he wore in the middle of a hunt—when he was measuring distance, threat, weakness.

But now it was on you.

On your mouth. Your throat. Your hands, slick with his blood.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice low. Hoarse. “Just… distracted.”

Your fingers faltered for half a second.

Then the needle moved again.

“Distracted,” you echoed, trying not to look at him. Trying not to feel the weight of his gaze on your skin. “By what, exactly?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

You felt it before you looked up—the shift in the air between you. The way his legs had spread slightly wider. The way his hand, still smeared in blood, flexed against the mattress. The muscle in his neck twitched as he breathed a little harder now.

“I’ve had your hands on me for fifteen minutes,” he muttered.

His eyes dragged over you like a slow touch.

“You really think I wouldn’t be thinking about it?”

The needle froze mid-stitch.

His hand moved—up your thigh, slow and rough and so warm, leaving streaks of dried blood where his fingers curled, making your breath hitch.

“Dean,” you warned.

He leaned in, eyes burning, close enough to taste the adrenaline still on his tongue.

“Hurts less when you’re close.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just stared at him, needle in your hand, his words echoing like a bruise behind your ribs.

Hurts less when you’re close.

And something in you cracked.

Not all at once. Not loudly. But like a slow tear in fabric—silent and irreversible.

You knotted the stitch, despite the slight tremble in your fingers. Let the needle drop back in the box.

Dean’s eyes followed it. Then flicked back to you.

You leaned in.

Not with grace, or caution.

Just need.

Your mouth met his in a crash—hot and messy, teeth knocking, breath tangled. He groaned, deep in his chest, hand tightening around your thigh like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His blood smeared across your jaw as he kissed you harder.

You felt the salt of it, the metallic sting where it touched your lips—but you didn’t care.

You kissed him like you’d been waiting since the first time he grabbed your hand on a hunt and called you darlin’. Like you were afraid he’d vanish if you pulled away.

His hands were everywhere now. On your hips, up your back, dragging your shirt halfway off before he even realized he was doing it. He broke the kiss only long enough to yank the fabric over your head—gritting his teeth when you gasped as the cold air hit your bare skin.

“This okay?” he asked, voice ragged, eyes flicking over your chest like he wanted to bite, not breathe.

You nodded. “Keep going.”

That was all he needed.

He surged forward, pulling you onto his lap with a groan, your knees bracketing his thighs. His lips crashed to your collarbone, mouth hot and desperate, tongue dragging a stripe up to the hollow of your throat.

“You taste like blood,” you murmured.

He looked up, half-smirking, half-devastated.

“So do you.”

Dean's thighs spread wider beneath you as you settled in his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him. His hands were already on your waist—hot, blood-slick, gripping like you might vanish.

You kissed him again—slower this time. Still messy. Still tasting metal.

But with purpose now.

Like you were trying to burn it into him.

He groaned into your mouth, breath catching when your hips rocked forward just enough to drag against the hard line beneath his jeans.

“Shit—” he muttered, head dropping against your shoulder, pressing soft kisses there, too. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last.”

You moved again—grinding down slow, deliberate. Felt the thick press of him through his jeans, the heat of it radiating through your clothes and into your skin.

You rolled your hips again. He gasped.

“Fuck, sweetheart—”

His voice broke.

His hand slid down, fingers pressing into your lower back, dragging you forward, just enough to make you feel everything—the bulge between his thighs, the way it pulsed when you rocked just right.

A soft moan left your lips.

Dean smiled, but it was ragged. Crooked. Like he was barely hanging on.

“I should stop,” he said, but his hand didn’t stop moving. “You were stitching me up two minutes ago.”

“And now?” you breathed, hips rolling slow again, pressing down harder this time.

His mouth caught your jaw, biting gently—a little too hard. His blood smeared your skin, warm and sticky where his lips slid down your neck.

“Now,” he groaned, “I want you to make me forget how bad it hurts.”

You rocked against him again—harder this time.

The sound that came from his throat didn’t sound human.

Your breath hitched when his fingers dipped just under the waistband of your pants. Not inside—not yet—just teasing the edge, the pads of them brushing hot against your skin.

“Dean—” you whispered.

But your hands were already moving.

Your mouth grazed the edge of his jaw, up to the shell of his ear, where your voice dropped to a rasp. “Let me feel you.”

He groaned. Loud. Head falling back against the headboard with a thud.

That was all the permission you needed.

Your fingers slid down between your bodies, fumbling the button of his jeans with urgency. You felt him twitch beneath the zipper as you worked it down, your palm brushing the thick heat straining against the fabric.

He swore again—hoarse, wrecked. His hands flexed hard at your hips, thumbs digging into the blood-smudged skin there like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you still or pull you closer.

“You’re not playin’ fair,” he muttered. “Not with that mouth. Not with those fuckin’ hands—”

You cut him off with another roll of your hips. This time, your clit ground directly against the bulge beneath his boxers.

And his hand slipped inside your pants.

Fingers sliding through the slick heat between your thighs like he already knew exactly how wet you were—because of him.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, mouth at your collarbone, “you’re soaked.”

You bit your lip. Rocked harder against his palm.

His finger curled, just slightly.

“You’ve been like this the whole time, haven’t you?” he muttered. “Sittin’ there patchin’ me up with your thighs squeezed together, thinkin’ about ridin’ me.”

Your only answer was a moan.

You finally got his jeans and boxers low enough to free him—his cock flushed and heavy, leaking against your wrist as your fingers curled around him. The sound he made when you stroked him once—just once—was pure need.

Your forehead pressed to his. His breath stuttered against your lips.

“Ride me,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

You shifted your weight just enough to line him up—hot, flushed, leaking against your entrance.

Dean’s breath hitched—hard.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers tightening like he thought maybe he could guide you down, just an inch, just enough to let him in.

But you didn’t move.

Instead, you rocked forward—slick folds sliding over the head of his cock, dragging your wet heat along the length of him without taking him inside.

He choked on a gasp.

“Fuck—”

You did it again.

Slower this time.

Let your clit catch on the thick ridge of him, let your wetness smear all over his skin.

Dean’s hips jerked upward, a low whimper torn from his throat like he hadn’t meant to let it out.

His fingers dug in harder.

“Don’t,” you whispered, breath brushing his ear. “Stay still.”

His jaw clenched.

You did it again.

Rocked your hips in one slow, aching grind—sliding your folds over him so perfectly that he actually groaned, loud and desperate.

“Please,” he rasped.

You leaned in, lips brushing his as you whispered:

“Not yet.”

Another roll of your hips. Another wet, maddening drag.

Dean let out a shaky, guttural sound, half-growl, half moan—his head dropping to your shoulder like he couldn’t fucking take it anymore.

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, ruined.

“You can take it,” you cooed.

He whimpered.

Dean Winchester fucking whimpered beneath you.

You rocked forward again, letting his cock press up against your soaked entrance—not inside. Just there. Just heat and slick and the unbearable tension of what wasn’t happening yet.

Dean gasped—short, strangled.

You felt his hands twitch on your hips, like he wanted to grab you, force you down—but didn’t.

Didn’t dare.

Because you’d told him to stay still.

And Dean—bloody, bruised, aching—listened.

You smiled, slow and soft, brushing your mouth against his jaw.

“You like this,” you whispered. “Don’t you?”

He exhaled like it hurt. Like you’d struck a nerve.

“Y’know I do,” he said, voice wrecked. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

You moved again—just your hips, slow and rolling, letting his cock slide through your folds once more. The head of him dragged perfectly over your clit, and you moaned this time—quiet, breathy.

His thighs trembled beneath you.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, eyes catching his.

Dean looked up at you, mouth slightly parted, breath uneven.

“So are you,” he said—barely a voice now.

You rocked again.

Slower.

Slicker.

The tip of him caught on your entrance—just for a second. Just enough to make both of you suck in breath—

But you didn’t let him in.

You lifted your hips again. Barely.

His whimper was softer this time—like surrender.

And it made something ache inside you.

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear.

"Do it again,” you whispered. “Let me hear it.”

He let out a sound that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite a sob.

And you kissed him, slow and deep, like you were thanking him for it.

You shifted your hips—finally—and this time, you let him in.

Just the tip.

Just enough to feel that initial stretch, slick and hot and impossibly good.

Dean's whole body went still beneath you. Breath gone. Back arched. Hands white-knuckled where they gripped the sheets instead of you.

A low, choked noise slipped from his throat.

You froze there—right there—cockhead seated just inside, and nothing more.

His jaw clenched like it hurt.

Like he didn’t know if he could take it.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear again, voice a whisper meant only for him.

“Is that what you wanted?”

Dean groaned—long and low, hips twitching before he caught himself.

You rolled your hips. Just barely.

The motion dragged him inside, no deeper—just that first inch grinding against your walls, slow and torturous.

His breath broke open on your throat.

“Jesus—” he gasped, voice cracking. “Don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop.”

But you didn’t move again.

Not yet.

You stayed right there—holding him inside you by a thread.

One shallow thrust. One soaked, pulsing inch.

His cock twitched.

You clenched.

Dean actually shivered beneath you.

His forehead pressed to your collarbone like he was praying.

You exhaled—soft, shaky—and shifted your hips again.

This time, you didn’t stop.

You sank down, inch by inch, slow enough to feel everything.

The stretch. The fullness. The way he parted you with each slow drag of skin.

Dean’s breath stuttered hard in his chest. His hands were still clenched at his sides, shaking slightly, like he was forcing himself not to move.

You took him all the way.

Until your thighs met his.

Until your walls clenched around him like they didn’t want to let go.

Until he was completely buried in you.

You stopped.

Not because it hurt, or because it was a little too much. But because it wasn’t enough unless you felt it all.

Dean let out a sound—not a moan this time.

Something smaller.

You leaned in.

Pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He flinched—like it struck deeper than any thrust could have.

Then your lips brushed his cheekbone, blood drying beneath your mouth, and he breathed your name like it meant something sacred.

You kissed the other side.

Then his lips.

Not hungry. Not demanding.

Just there.

A seal. A silence.

A prayer.

He opened his eyes, glassy with heat, and whispered something you didn’t catch. His hands finally found your waist again—gentle now, reverent.

You were still full of him.

Still not moving.

Just breathing each other in.

You stayed like that for a moment longer—his cock buried deep, your chest rising against his, the heat between you two thick enough to suffocate.

And then—you moved.

Slow.

So fucking slow.

A roll of your hips that pulled him almost halfway out, walls clinging to every inch, then sank back down with a soft exhale against his mouth.

Dean groaned.

Low. Full-throated. Wrecked.

His hands slid from your waist to your hips, not to control you—but to feel you. His thumbs pressed into your skin like he needed the proof that you were still there. Still wrapped around him.

You moved again.

And again.

Each time just a little more fluid. A little deeper. A little wetter.

The slick sound of him inside you filled the room—filthy and beautiful all at once. Your thighs started to tremble, your breath catching each time your clit brushed the line of his pelvis.

Dean’s head fell back, mouth parted, brows drawn together in something close to pain.

“You feel so good,” he murmured. Barely a sound.

You rocked down harder this time, and he gasped—sharp, like you’d knocked the air out of him.

His eyes fluttered open—green and drowning.

“You—” he tried. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, soft and breathless.

Then you rode him again—slow, deep, intentional—and Dean fell silent beneath you.

He was buried in you to the hilt.

Thick.

Hot.

Stretching you open so wide it almost ached—but not quite.

It was perfect.

The way he filled you—like he belonged there. Like your body had been molded around him and was only just remembering what it felt like to be whole.

Every inch of him dragged against your walls with every slow grind of your hips. You felt everything.

The blunt, swollen head pressing up into that sweet, tender place inside you—deep, but not punishing.

The subtle ridge near the base that made your breath catch every time you rolled back down.

The twitch of him when your cunt clenched involuntarily, milking him in slow pulses that made his mouth fall open in disbelief.

“Fuck,” Dean rasped. “You’re so—tight. So warm.”

His hands stayed at your hips, palms splayed wide, thumbs brushing back and forth in soft, reverent strokes. He didn’t grip. He didn’t thrust up. He just held on.

Like if he didn’t, he’d fall apart.

Your thighs were trembling now—not from effort. From feeling. From the way his cock kissed every nerve inside you that begged to be touched. From the way you could feel his veins throb against your walls, thick and pulsing, alive inside you.

His eyes were barely open. Just slivers of green, glassy with need.

“You feel unreal,” he whispered. “Every time you move, I—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your walls fluttered around him in answer, soaked and swollen. He hissed through his teeth, head dropping back again, chest rising beneath you like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Your hands moved up his shoulders, then into his hair—damp with sweat, soft and messy under your fingers. You tugged gently, just enough to make him look at you again.

And you started rolling your hips slower.

Deeper.

Dragging him from tip to base with aching care, letting your slick heat coat him all over again.

Dean moaned—quiet and broken.

“You’re gonna make me come just like that.”

You didn’t stop.

Because this wasn’t about chasing it. It was about feeling all of it.

The wet stretch.

The fullness.

The way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for years.

You rocked your hips again—just a little deeper, a little firmer—and Dean’s breath caught on a groan that went straight to your core.

You didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

He looked gorgeous like this.

Ruined.

Eyes heavy, lips parted, chest rising with each breath like it hurt to hold in.

Blood still streaked his temple, dried to a dull rust where it met the sweat trailing down his neck.

One bruise was blooming on his jaw, blooming deeper on his ribs—your hands had ghosted over it earlier, trembling—but right now, you didn’t see the damage.

You saw him.

Strong.

Undone.

So open beneath you it almost broke your heart.

You rolled your hips again, slower this time. Dragged his cock from the edge of your walls back to your deepest point, and the look on his face—God—his eyes fluttered shut like it hurt to feel that good.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

He obeyed.

Of course he did.

Those green eyes found yours, wrecked and full of heat, and he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel safe.

You leaned in and kissed him. Deep. Lush. Tongue soft against his, breath tangled, bodies slick and still moving.

He groaned into your mouth.

“You’re perfect,” you murmured against his lips.

Dean shuddered beneath you.

One hand slid up your spine, cradling the back of your neck, like he needed to hold some part of you or he’d lose it completely.

“You have no idea,” he breathed, voice breaking, “what you do to me.”

You did.

Because you felt it in every movement—how his cock throbbed inside you, how his hands had gone gentle, how his whole body gave itself up the second you straddled him.

And now—your pace was building. Just slightly.

Thrusts a little firmer. A little wetter.

The slick sound of him moving inside you filled the room again, and your thighs started to ache, not from strain but from the weight of feeling too much.

His body.

His beauty.

His breath beneath you.

And all of it—just for you.

You rolled your hips again, slow and grinding, and it nearly undid you.

Dean filled you so completely it was almost unbearable—thick, hard, hot inside you, pressing at every swollen, aching nerve.

Your cunt clung to him, slick and pulsing, the walls of your body greedy with every inch.

Each glide dragged along your insides in ways that felt too good, too deep—like he was stroking you from the inside out.

There was no resistance anymore. No hesitation. Just wet heat, your body swallowing him over and over like it had forgotten how to let go.

You were soaked—wet enough to drip down his thighs, to slick his cock so perfectly he slid in and out with obscene ease.

But even then, you ached.

The stretch was still there. The pressure. His cock curved just right, hitting that tender place inside you each time you rocked down, just enough to make your clit throb from the lack of friction.

You gasped, forehead against his.

Your hips stuttered, trying to find it again—that angle, that rhythm, the one that would—

Dean’s hand left your back.

Slid down, slow and heavy, over your hip. Between your thighs.

And then—his thumb found your clit.

You nearly cried out.

"Easy,” he murmured, voice low and dark, thumb pressing just right. “I got you.”

He circled it. Slow. Firm. Perfect.

And it was too much.

The stretch of him inside you, the slick sound of your bodies moving, the pressure curling tighter with every thrust—

And now this.

His thumb, working your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Dragging you under.

You clenched around him hard.

Dean hissed through his teeth, his cock twitching inside you.

“Shit—just like that,” he groaned. “Keep squeezin’ me, sweetheart. Fuck, you feel unreal.”

You moaned, loud this time, riding him now in long, grinding strokes—hips moving in rhythm with the swirl of his thumb.

The pleasure was raw. Blunt. Almost painful.

Your thighs shook.

Your breath stuttered.

His cock dragged along your walls with every motion—too much and not enough, your clit throbbing beneath his thumb, cunt clenching with every thrust.

You were falling.

Slow, inevitable.

And he was going to take you all the way.

Every roll of your hips had your clit catching perfectly beneath his thumb, your walls fluttering hard around him with every thrust. The pleasure had sharpened—gone molten. Constant. So deep in your belly it made your fingers curl into his shoulders like you might fall through him.

You could barely keep rhythm anymore.

Your thighs were shaking—hard now. Muscles burning, knees slipping against the sheets as the tremors worked up through your legs and into your core.

You tried to keep moving—tried to stay in control—but your body was slipping.

And Dean noticed.

“Easy,” he breathed again, voice hoarse, hands steadying your hips. “I got you. Just… let me.”

You whimpered—already gone.

Your head dropped against his, breath hot against his cheek.

And then—he started moving you.

Not fast, or hard.

Just deep.

His hands guided your hips, pulling you down slow and hard onto his cock, grinding your clit into the thick press of his thumb with every roll.

You cried out—loud, helpless.

Your thighs were trembling uncontrollably now, cunt soaked and spasming, clit swollen and so sensitive under his touch. The pressure was unbearable.

“That’s it,” he murmured, thumb circling again. “I can feel you—fuck, you’re so close. Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

You moaned. Loud. Shattered.

Your walls squeezed him tight, the slick friction almost too much, the stretch almost too deep, the heat everywhere.

He was fucking up into you now, small thrusts timed with his thumb, and it was—

Too much. Perfect.

You could feel it coming. Curling tight.

Your whole body pulsed, mouth open, moaning with every breath, hips twitching as Dean held you through it.

“Let go,” he said again, voice breaking. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

You were suspended in it.

Right at the edge.

Every muscle drawn tight, cunt fluttering, breath broken, your entire body begging to come—but not tipping.

Dean kept moving beneath you—slow thrusts that went too deep, cock dragging through your soaked heat just right, his thumb relentless against your clit. Circling. Pressing.

Knowing.

And that’s what made it worse—he knew.

He knew exactly what you needed. Exactly how to touch you.

Exactly how to keep you perched there, on the knife's edge of release, thighs trembling so bad you could barely stay upright.

“Dean—” you choked, voice cracked, eyes shut so tight you saw stars. “I—I can’t—”

His lips brushed your jaw, breath hot, voice rough and low and full of awe.

“Yes, you can. You’re right fuckin’ there.”

He thrust up into you harder.

Your clit dragged against his thumb, slick and throbbing.

Your body seized.

And then it hit.

Like fire under your skin.

Like lightning through your spine.

You came hard.

Your whole body snapped down on him, cunt pulsing in sharp, desperate waves, every nerve shuddering as your thighs spasmed, your voice breaking on a moan that turned into a cry.

Dean cursed—loud and wrecked—his hips bucking up into you once, twice, lost in how tight you clenched him.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—God, sweetheart—”

You were gone.

Trembling in his lap, pussy spasming around his cock, nails digging into his shoulders as you rode it out—wave after wave crashing through you, slick pouring down his length, thighs shaking with the aftershock.

He held you the whole time.

One arm around your waist, the other hand never leaving your clit—just circling, coaxing, drawing it out until your body slumped forward, spent and soaked and shaking.

And still—he was hard inside you.

Still pulsing. Still thick. Still waiting.

You were still shaking when the orgasm passed—legs twitching around his hips, arms limp around his shoulders, cunt still fluttering around the thick weight of his cock inside you.

But Dean hadn’t come.

You could feel it—the tension in his thighs, the way his hands were trembling, the way his cock throbbed, hard and aching, buried deep in your soaked heat.

So you moved.

Slow, unsteady.

Your hips rolled forward again, just enough to make both of you moan—his head dropping back with a hiss, your body flinching at the sharp edge of oversensitivity.

But you kept going.

Rocking your hips. Taking him. Giving it back.

Even though your thighs quivered. Even though your clit screamed.

Even though you were already raw and drenched and undone.

“You haven’t come yet,” you breathed. “I want to feel it.”

Dean looked up at you—eyes dark and wide and wrecked.

You moved again.

And he felt it—your walls still spasming, your body twitching, the slick, wet friction of you around him as you tried to ride through the aftershocks.

He sat up fully.

One hand cupped your jaw. The other slid to the small of your back.

And he kissed you.

Slow and deep.

Tongue soft. Mouth full of heat. Lips reverent.

Then he pulled your hips against his, cock buried to the hilt, and whispered against your mouth—

“Let me do it.”

You nodded, unable to speak.

And Dean started fucking up into you

His hands gripped your hips—tight now, fingers digging in, trying to ground himself.

He pulled you down against him, slow, deep—and then thrust up once, sharp.

You gasped.

Your whole body jolted, still oversensitive, still twitching from the last orgasm.

But you didn’t stop him.

Because the sound he made—a broken groan from deep in his chest—told you just how close he was.

He thrust again.

And again.

But the rhythm was off—uneven, desperate.

Not because he didn’t know how to fuck you—because he was already unraveling.

Your cunt clenched around him, wet and sore and still fluttering with aftershocks, and it wrecked him.

“Fuck—” he choked, forehead pressed to yours. “I can’t—I’m not gonna last—”

You moaned for him, hips twitching, your nails scraping down his back.

“Don’t hold it,” you whispered. “Come for me.”

That did it.

His whole body tensed—hard.

He shoved up into you once more, deep, and stilled—

And then he came.

Hard.

You felt it—the first hot pulse of his release inside you, thick and deep, his cock twitching as he moaned into your neck like it was being ripped out of him.

“Fucking hell—” he gasped. “Jesus, sweetheart—”

He kept twitching, spurting inside you, hips rocking helplessly now, chasing the last of it, cock still throbbing in your soaked cunt.

His grip on your hips faltered—he was shaking.

Chest heaving.

Sweat slick on his neck, mixing with blood.

And he kept whispering your name, softer each time, like it was the only thing he could remember.

Dean was still inside you when he collapsed back against the headboard, pulling you with him.

His arms wrapped around your back, holding you so close, one hand sliding into your hair, the other still gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go. His chest rose and fell beneath yours, ragged and heavy, heart pounding under your cheek.

Neither of you said anything.

There was nothing to say.

Just breath.

Just heat.

Just being.

You were still trembling—soft now, aftershocks rippling through your limbs like waves in a tide pool. Your cunt was still full of him, stretched and soaked, clenching faintly even though he wasn’t moving anymore.

And he was still hard enough to feel it.

Warm.

Thick.

Deep.

Eventually, his breathing slowed. His grip softened. He kissed your temple—once, slow, and left his mouth there like it was home.

Your hips shifted.

And you felt it.

A slow, wet slide.

The slick heat of his cum, already starting to leak out of you, easing down between your thighs, smearing where your skin met his.

You gasped, just a little, the rawness making you shiver.

Dean exhaled like he felt it too.

He held you tighter.

His cock twitched, once, still sensitive. Still deep. Still so thick inside your swollen cunt.

“Still with me?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You nodded against his chest. “Barely.”

He laughed softly—just once. Then kissed your hair again, thumb tracing slow circles on your spine.

And you stayed there.

Still joined.

Still leaking.

Still burning.

Wrapped in each other like you had nowhere else to go.

[velvourne]

soldier boy's favorite call girl

he calls—she comes.

credit & links:

⟡ more soldier boy.

⟡ pics & gif from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[velvourne]

sorry im late i sat on my bed in a towel for 45 minutes staring at the wall

[velvourne]

dean winchester's siren

he looks for her in every body of water.

she waits for him, always. ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

⟡ more dean winchester.

⟡ pics & gif from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

[velvourne]

[velvourne]

"you gotta play with the cards you're dealt" WRONG. i play pot of greed which lets me draw two additional cards from my deck

[velvourne]

[velvourne]

[velvourne]

[velvourne]

I like to think that Dick Grayson has a hair tie on his wrist for you—and you only.

———💋

He stole it from your nightstand one night and has worn it ever since. And now, whenever he sees you struggling with your hair, he immediately walks up behind you and ties it for you.

"Dick, I can tie my own hair," you muttered, letting him do it anyway as you continued whatever task you were doing.

"I know, sweetheart. Let me," he murmured, his brows furrowing in concentration. All senses focused on tying your hair properly keeping it from distracting you any longer.

———

He would be so... protective and possessive about that damn hair tie. When someone asked if he had an extra, he'd pretend he didn’t hear a thing, subtly covering the tie with his other hand.

———

Whenever someone flirted with him, he’d casually brush his hair back, making sure they saw the tie on his wrist—a silent warning that he was already taken. Then he’d flash them an innocent smile and say, "No, I’m taken," before walking away.

———

When he was out on a mission or patrolling, he’d subconsciously play with it—a gentle reminder that someone was waiting for him. It was small, but meaningful. A quiet sign that you were still here—his sanctuary.

[velvourne]

listen. if u like/reblog my posts fairly frequently, u better believe that i have noticed ok. even if we don’t ever talk. if we aren’t even mutuals! doesn’t matter. i see you. i see your URL pop up in my notifications every so often. and when it does? oh, when it does……… i’m like “oh hey there’s my buddy! gee i sure missed u pal!” and i get real happy for a minute ok. sorry, i don’t make the rules.

[velvourne]

listen. if u like/reblog my posts fairly frequently, u better believe that i have noticed ok. even if we don’t ever talk. if we aren’t even mutuals! doesn’t matter. i see you. i see your URL pop up in my notifications every so often. and when it does? oh, when it does……… i’m like “oh hey there’s my buddy! gee i sure missed u pal!” and i get real happy for a minute ok. sorry, i don’t make the rules.

[velvourne]

ily: i love yugioh

ilysm: i love yugioh so much

[velvourne]

i should only be charged a symbolic amount of 10 cents for my groceries because i have kind eyes and my intentions are pure

[velvourne]

my blood is a prettier shade of red than urs btw

[velvourne]

you can pry starting sentences with 'and' or 'but' out of my cold, dead hands

[velvourne]

Reading my own fanfiction is basically just a rollercoaster of emotional whiplash.

20% of the time: “Hold on. I wrote this? This is fire. This is emotionally devastating in the best way. This scene is dripping with tension. I’m a literary perfectionist. Someone give me a book deal.”

80% of the time: “Straight to jail. Immediate prison. Why is everyone’s breath hitching?. I used the word ‘gaze’ three times in one paragraph like I was possessed. Did I think 'his eyes darkened' was profound? Why is everyone clenching their jaws? Why is someone whispering 'their name like a prayer' again?? No one talks like this. What is this dialogue. Why are there so many weird metaphors and em-dashes…”